by Antony Trew
Rohrbach laughed dryly. “That’s what Mariotta said. They’re seeing Lindemann tonight. She’ll let us know at breakfast to-morrow, Steve.”
“Don’t drop any bricks. Be careful if it’s on. But you may get some marvellous gen. Try and get the skipper and his chums plastered. See if they let on in any way about being ready for sea.” He lit a cigarette, the flare of the match revealing his dark intense face. “Mariotta’s remark may not mean much. You tell me she’s going back to her people in Northern Mozambique in a few days. That was probably what she meant by soon or not at all.”
“Maybe, Steve. But she looked as though she’d dropped a clanger.”
Widmark stroked his chin. “The latest intelligence reports I saw in Cape Town were very vague. Rather played down what they’d said before. You know the sort of thing—Hagenfels may run for it or she may not. Take your choice.”
“That’s precisely what we’re going to do,” said the Newt.
“Yes, it is.” The way Widmark said it didn’t sound as though failure was one of the things he was worrying about.
Ten minutes later the party broke up, the cars pulled away from the side of the road and turned and re-entered the main road, the Studebaker making for Peter’s, and the Buick going back up the road towards the Polana. When the two cars dropped their passengers in darkened streets in the Polana and Ponta Vermelha areas, the breeze from the sea had become an easterly wind, and stars shone through gaps in fast-moving clouds.
Widmark parked his car and went into the hotel. It was late and the bar was empty but for two befuddled young men who drooled at each other in owl-like seriousness. He sat at the far end, refused the bartender’s attempts at conversation, and drank two Coivoisseurs in fairly quick succession. Then, responding to their stimulation, he ordered a third and when it was finished gazed moodily at the empty glass, weighing the possibility of a fourth but deciding against it and for bed.
The lift stopped at an upper floor, he said good night to the African and made for his room. He saw that the door was on the latch and was mildly surprised because he thought he’d locked it. Opening it, he switched on the light and realised at once that he’d got out of the lift on the wrong floor for, upon the bed, her fine head precisely in the middle of the small embroidered pillow, lay Olympia Stavropoulus. The light could have been on for only a few seconds when he switched it off, but he left the room wondering furiously if she’d been awake and whether she’d seen him. If she had what on earth would she think? Worried and rattled, he cursed himself and the liftman for the stupid mistake and went up the stairs to the next floor. As he had suspected his bedroom door was locked. Again he cursed. Of all the wrong rooms he might have walked into, why had he chosen Olympia’s?
The next day was Sunday.
Shortly before lunch Widmark came up from the harbour, swung his car into the courtyard, gay with portulaca, and parked in the shade of the magnolia trees. The heat rose from the paving stones in waves as he walked to the front door of the Polana past the palm trees with plantains growing at their feet, past the concrete tubs of red geraniums and the beds of tropical plants where the variegated leaves of the crotons and the deep carmines of the cannas predominated. The glare from the white walls of the hotel struck into his eyes like fine sand.
In the foyer he was asking the Goanese porter for a newspaper, when there was a touch on his arm and a woman said: “Hallo, Stephen! What on earth are you doing here?”
He turned slowly, alarm signals jangling in his mind, wondering who it was and what he was going to say. Then with relief he saw that it was Di Brett, a woman he’d met at parties in the Cape in 1940 and once danced with at Kelvin Grove and then, somehow, she’d passed out of his ken, and when he got back from the Mediterranean he’d heard that she’d left the Cape.
As he said “Hallo, Di!” he saw the Newt walking away, back towards them, and with cold unbelief heard her call after him. “Do be a darling, James, and bring down my sunglasses.” The Newt’s shoulders twitched and he mumbled “Righto!” but he didn’t turn round.
Widmark knew that Di Brett was a widow. “Your new husband?” he smiled thinly, inclining his head towards the retreating figure.
“Heavens, no! A charming young Englishman from Portugal who is staying here. I’ve only known him for a week.”
“You haven’t wasted much time.”
Her eyebrows arched. “I call everybody ‘darling.’ You should know that, Stephen! Anyway what are you doing here? I thought you were at sea fighting the enemy.”
“Invalided out. Asthma. Just happened. I was bored stiff in the Cape, so I went up to Johannesburg and when that died on me I thought I’d come down here and loaf in the sun.”
“Married?” Her smile was half indolent, half curious.
“No. What are you doing here?”
“Oh! Waiting for the time to pass.” She looked away and her mouth drooped. “I tried Durban after the Cape. Then Salisbury. Then Johannesburg. But everywhere I went it was people in uniform and the talk was war, war, war, and I couldn’t bear it any longer so I came here. There’s something to be said for a neutral country. You escape from the uniform and—and the things you’re trying to forget.” She smiled gaily and said: “And to be quite honest, the food and the atmosphere here are much less stodgy than the Union. This place is quaintly gay and cosmopolitan. There’s even a casino.”
“I know. Costa’s. I’m going to give it a thrash to-night.”
“Be careful, Steve! Lots of pretty girls there.”
He looked round the foyer, bored with the conversation, anxious to escape, worried about the Newt’s friendship with this attractive woman. The Newt was highly susceptible and Widmark didn’t want him involved in that sort of thing now. There was too much at stake. And why hadn’t the Newt mentioned her?
At that moment Olympia Stavropoulus rounded a corner and sailed past them, looking to Widmark like a battle cruiser on the measured mile. Without appearing to notice him, she managed a general glare which was a mixture of hatred and triumph. Widmark shuddered and looked at his watch. God! he thought. She must have seen me in her room! To Di he said: “I’ll have to get under way. I’m astern of station.”
“That sounds terribly naval.” She thought of something and her eyes and voice were contrite. “Oh, Steve! I haven’t congratulated you. I hear you did terribly well in the Med. Two D.S.C.s and buckets of glory.”
The lines round his mouth tightened and he gave her a wintry look. “I’m not so sure about the glory.” Then he was gone.
Chapter Seven
To Otto Stauch it was intensely irritating that he had to go and see von Falkenhausen and not the reverse. Whereas Stauch had been in Mozambique for fifteen years, the Freiherr was a comparatively new arrival in the territory; indeed, it was only four months ago that he had come and then after six weeks he had disappeared again and of course they were not permitted to know where. Oh, no! He was too important for that. The first time he had stayed at the Polana, but now on this return visit he had a flat in the Ponta Vermelha area and what was more all the work of finding and renting it had fallen upon Stauch. “Mein Gott!” The fat man puffed and blew as he climbed the stairs to the flat. “Anyone would think I am his servant.” Then he comforted himself with the thought that what he did was for the Fatherland and not for the Freiherr, and with that uppermost in his mind he reached the landing and pressed the bell. While he waited he saw that the name on the white card in the brass frame was still “Jorge Andrada Cavalho.” That was sensible.
The door was opened by an African. Stauch followed him down a book-lined passage into a study which was clearly a bachelor’s. There was a tray on a low table, with a whisky decanter, soda siphon, beer and glasses. The African disappeared and Stauch was alone. He walked round the room examining the pictures on the walls, some prints of early Lisbon, shelves of well-bound books with an unread look about them and various other odds and ends including a collection of ivory elephants. He stopped befo
re a framed photograph taken on safari: Senhor Cavalho, evidently, standing with his foot on the trunk of a dead elephant, the tusks gleaming large and white behind him, a rifle in the crook of his arm.
Stauch’s thoughts were interrupted by von Falkenhausen coming down the staircase into the study; tall, brown eyes unsmiling, he moved quietly for a big man. There was no friendship between these two. The Freiherr, warm and sympathetic by nature, had learnt on his last visit that Stauch was unapproachable, and he accepted this with the philosophy of a man who has other and more important things to worry about. He knew that Stauch was loyal; a painstaking man whose services in Mozambique were of great value to the Third Reich, but Stauch was, the Freiherr knew, inordinately jealous and given to ambitions which far outran his capabilities.
The men greeted each other formally and sat down. Von Falkenhausen offered his guest a cheroot.
“No thank you, Herr Baron.”
“A drink, then, Herr Stauch?”
The fat man would have liked to refuse, but his thirst and the appeal of the frosted bottles were too much. “If you please,” he said curtly.
The Freiherr poured the beer into a porcelain stein with a pewter top, passed it to Stauch, and helped himself to a whisky and soda.
Without waiting for his host, Stauch raised his glass. “Prosit!”
The Freiherr said: “Prosit!” and smiled thinly at Stauch whose long look round the flat ended with a censorious, “You live very comfortably.”
“In the moments when I’m here, Herr Stauch. At other times not quite so comfortably.”
The rebuke had its effect. Stauch sank back into his chair and applied himself to the stein of chilled Pilsener. It was excellent.
The Freiherr lit his cheroot, spinning the match into a wastepaper basket. “To-day I delivered the charts to Captain Lindemann.”
“Your first meeting with him? What do you think of him?”
“I liked him. He’s uncomplicated. A real seaman. No beating about the bush.”
“And his navigating officer? Günther Moewe?” Stauch’s small eyes watched the Freiherr curiously.
“How should I know? We met for only a moment. Possibly he is a good man.”
“He is. He is also a good member of the party.” This was said with some relish. Stauch, too, was a good member of the party; but with the German aristocracy, the old junker officer class, one could never be sure. The von Falkenhausens came from East Prussia and they were great landowners. Stauch felt sure their party loyalties would be lukewarm.
The Freiherr ignored the remark. “Lindemann tells me that the Hagenfels is in all respects ready for sea. The period of no moon commences in three days. At any moment a signal will come from the Wilhelmstrasse. On the night of the sailing, during the hours of darkness, we will reinforce her crew from the other ships. The time of sailing must coincide with the outward movement of allied vessels. To give Hagenfels cover in the harbour as she leaves, and outside when she reaches the open sea.”
Stauch loosened his belt. It was hot and his stomach strained against the leather strap. “Did you inform Kapitän Lindemann of what is intended?”
“Only in outline. That the ship will become a supply vessel for U-boats and raiders. No other details. He knows that I shall take command.”
They discussed the matter further, and then Stauch changed the subject. “You have seen the signals we have been intercepting? The sinkings off here and to the south are excellent, are they not, Herr Baron?” His little eyes, conscious of the part he had played, shone with pride.
Von Falkenhausen nodded. “Very good indeed! The U-cruisers are not wasting time. But the supply situation is serious and much depends on getting the Hagenfels out.”
Stauch looked at his watch and got up to go. The Freiherr waved him down. “One moment, Herr Stauch! There is another matter I must discuss with you. It is important”
The fat man sank back into his chair, his small eyes a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.
Von Falkenhausen filled the empty stein and poured himself another whisky and soda. “At Ressano Garcia yesterday, when I collected the charts, two South African naval officers came through. They didn’t recognise me, but I recognised them. I saw them in Alexandria last year on many occasions. They were serving in the same group.” He paused. “An anti-submarine group.”
Stauch was not particularly interested. “I imagine they are here on leave. It is not unusual.”
“No. But it is unusual to give incorrect information on immigration forms.”
Stauch sat up and began to take notice. “How do you know this?”
“Andrada Gouviea was on duty in the customs house. He let me look at the forms they’d just completed. Widmark—he was a lieutenant when I last saw him—described himself as a salesman. The other man, McFadden—he was engineer officer in Widmark’s ship—described himself as an accountant.”
“That is normal, Herr Baron. These were probably their peacetime occupations and coming to a neutral country they can only come as civilians.”
“Their peacetime occupations happened to be ‘lawyer’ and ‘marine engineer.’ But there is more. They gave addresses in Johannesburg at which they are not known,” The tall man’s eyes glinted.
“Are you sure, Herr Baron?”
“I telephoned Johannesburg last night. Spoke to Leuthen. He checked and phoned me back this morning.”
“Another thing,” von Falkenhausen was holding his drink against the light, revolving the glass slowly, squinting at it with one eye shut. “These two,” he paused, “friends—down here on holiday—are staying at different hotels. That is not very friendly, Herr Stauch. Widmark at the Polana, McFadden at the Cardoso. This information, too, I got from the immigration forms.”
Stauch tapped on the arm of his chair, frowning at the problem. “What is Widmark like?”
“That,” said the Freiherr quietly, “is what worries me. He’s a dangerous man. Known in Alex. as ‘The Butcher,’ and for good reason.”
He told Stauch what he knew of Widmark and how he had earned his nickname. After long discussion they decided on two things: first, that it would be unwise to inform the Portuguese authorities that these men had given false information at the border, because the Portuguese, though neutral, were unquestionably pro-Allies; secondly, the Freiherr would visit the Polana and reintroduce himself to Widmark: such a confrontation could do no harm. It might conceivably do some good. Give a clue, for example, as to why these two men were in Lourenço Marques.
Widmark was pretty certain that the oily, bald man with the sunglasses was watching him, putting aside his newspaper at times and inclining his head towards where Widmark sat alone in the corner of the lounge reading. Irritated by this attention, Widmark looked up and stared hard at the bald man who backed behind the paper again.
It was the first time he had seen the man, and his plump, swarthy oiliness did not commend him. He tried to classify him: Belgian? Portuguese? Greek? Roumanian? Hungarian? Merchant? Money-lender? Filthy postcard vendor? He gave up. The fellow looked like all or any of them—someone who belonged to the deeper shadows of the market place. Having put the man in his place, metaphorically at least, Widmark went back to his book with some satisfaction.
David Rohrbach and Johan spent that Sunday out in the bay fishing in one of Domingos Parao’s boats. It was a sultry day and they ran out into the lee of Chefine Island, fishing along the reef Parao had recommended. They discussed various things including their disappointment that Mariotta had not appeared at breakfast that morning, so that they still didn’t know whether the party was on.
In the late afternoon, when it clouded over and the wind came in from the east, they started up the motor and made for the harbour, passing an inward-bound tanker on the way. As they rounded the fairway buoy off Ponta Vermelha, they were overtaken by the sloop Bartolomeu Dias and on her upper deck they saw clusters of men in tattered clothing, many covered in fuel oil, some wearing bandages, most with haggard
, strained faces. Johan realised they were survivors.
“Poor devils!” he said.
David Rohrback nodded. “I chatted to a German in the Central Bar last night. He told me there’s a U-boat group outside raising hell. Apparently this place has become stiff with survivors in the last few days.”
“I’ve come across a few in the Rua Araújo.”
“Can’t think why we still allow independent sailings.”
The entrance to the boat harbour loomed up, and they turned into it and secured alongside. After tidying up the boat and stowing away the gear, they paid Domingos Parao what they owed him, gave most of the fish they’d caught to Africans waiting at the Catembe Ferry, and drove back to the Cardoso.
That night there was a rendezvous down at the Aterro de Machaquene and to it went Rohrbach, Johan, Widmark and Mike Kent. They sat in Widmark’s car, parked in the dark under the casuarina trees, well back from the road.
Widmark lit a cigarette. “What’s the buzz, David?”
“The party’s on. We saw Mariotta and Cleo about an hour ago. Mariotta says Lindemann’s all for it. When she suggested bringing me and Johan, he wasn’t madly keen. Said there’d be too many men, but later he relented. Mariotta’s pretty hard to resist. But he said not to let anyone know because his agent didn’t like parties on board.”
“When’s it for?”
“Any night this week. The girls are to let Lindemann know. We told them we couldn’t make a date until to-morrow, because until then we wouldn’t know which night Domingos had fixed for our fishing.”
Widmark was silent, thinking hard, then he said: “Tomorrow’s the twenty-second, isn’t it? Beginning of the no moon period.”
Rohrbach confirmed that it was, and Widmark was silent again until he said: “I was on the Gorjao Quay today. The Clan McPhilly and Tactician are still working cargo. They’re working through to-night. The Newt’s tugboat chap says they’ll finish loading on Monday or Tuesday and go out into the stream. Sail on Wednesday or Thursday night.”